by Emby Press
“He sees a horde of the captive souls of those who, before him, had sold their souls for a forbidden glimpse into the Abyss. He may not recognize them all, but I see the inhuman visages of sentient crustaceans from the careening black planets, the writhing eye-stalks of entities with heads like starfish, the distorted human countenances of the Pharaoh Nephren-ka, the wizard Ludvig Prinn, the doomed cleric Enoch Bowen—and the mutely howling features of Robert Blake! For the form that lies before us is not he! Watch and see!”
The pseudo-Blake at once collapsed and began to decompose with shocking rapidity. From his crumbling jaws there emerged an intensely black, roiling cloud. As it gathered itself and loomed up against the ceiling, it began to coalesce, albeit into a still vague outline. There were suggestions of beating wings, though these were more heard than seen. Toward the top sat what looked like a kind of oily bubble which quickly divided like a multi-cellular organism into three.
Zarnack, his sublime composure for the first time shaken, whispered, “Great God—the three-lobed blazing eye! Don’t look at it, Akbar Singh!”
The entity before us began to hurl itself like a club against the walls of the room. But the impacts were not very forceful, as if there were some dimensional buffer between it and the mundane matter of which the walls were made. After a few long minutes of this, Zarnack extinguished the projecting lamp. The images of the damned disappeared. And so did the vaporous bulk of the entity that had concealed itself in the reanimated corpse of Robert Blake. It retracted, condensed, and shrank as it flowed into the Trapezohedron as if a yoke were to reverse its emergence and retreat into the egg. Then it was gone.
After I had insisted on gathering and disposing of the scant remains of Robert Blake, Zarnack and I returned to his study and rested ourselves in the facing chairs, conversing across the desk.
“As I think you know already, Akbar Singh, the unfortunate Blake did in truth die the night of that preternatural storm, no doubt from heart failure in dread of what he knew was coming upon him. The Avatar of Darkness could not withstand the lightning strike aimed against it by a watchful providence, so at the last moment it took refuge in the expiring body of its stooge, young Blake. From that moment it undertook a desperate search for the Shining Trapezohedron through which it had entered this world. Hoping that exposure to it would renew its accustomed form, it sought to resume its deadly mischief on this plane to which Blake had unknowingly summoned it.
“Once it exited Blake’s puppet-like corpse, it beheld the projected images contained in the gem and imagined it had materialized inside it. Then, when the images were, so to speak, sucked back into the stone, the Avatar of Darkness was carried along with it. What it thought must be happening therefore did happen. We fooled it.”
“And the Shining Trapezohedron itself, master? What will you do with it now? How to prevent all this happening again?”
Zarnack grinned a sly grin. “Do you think I pocketed it? No, but try to make sense of this, old fellow. The relic was a portal, a window on all time and space, a gate where the spheres meet. It has vanished along with its avatar, into and through itself. It has abandoned our dull dimension. And I say good riddance!”
THE DEVIL’S MUD PACK
Neil Baker
As I gazed through the soot-stained window of my first class air pod, the miserable constructs of East London slowly gave way to walls of elm bordering seas of mustard. Krellen had given me the usual briefing in his dingy office but he had been a little sparing with the details.
All I knew was that I was to investigate rumors of ‘queer goings-on’ at a small establishment called Penfold Spa, nestled in the small village of Haverford, which brushed up against what was left of Epping Forest. Many of these villages in Essex promoted themselves as getaways for city workers and Stack War veterans, so cottage industries had blossomed and spas like my final destination were proving immensely popular.
I propped a file of newspaper clippings upon the opposite seat and perused their contents. Two of the clippings were accompanied by photographs, both displaying scrawny ladies in varying states of conniption. The text, wrapped like checkered head-scarves around their visages, pronounced the usual ramblings of persons who had been offered a glimpse of the true world. Their outpourings contained the word ‘monsters’ no less than four times, suggesting a limited vocabulary but also hinting at the joys to come.
*
The Liverpool Street Special hovered into Chipping Ongar station and wheezed to a stop, its spine of rotor blades slowly winding down as it docked clumsily against the stepovator. An uncomfortable but mercifully short cab ride delivered me to Haverford before the sun was fully set, and I settled into my accommodation for the next few days; a charming bed and breakfast on the edge of the village.
Pod seats tended to numb my extremities and so I took a late stroll through the wide lanes of the village marveling at the stillness, the lack of throbbing corner engines and utter pitch darkness of the area. Shortly I arrived at the local watering hole, the Snare and Spring. Previous experience had taught me that drinking establishments were the best place to harvest information due to booze-loosened lips and even looser moral codes, and so I strode in with a hearty smile.
At the risk of sounding a frightful bore, the old cliché happened. The grizzled old fart belting out Old Ma Brown’s Clockwork Leg on the smoke organ in the corner froze mid-bellow. Mugs of pale ale and gin paused in flight betwixt table and mouth. Somewhere, a spittoon pinged. The landlady, a magnificently ample woman who burst from the top of her corset like a soufflé, gave me the once over with her one real eye, and swiftly scanned me with its clockwork twin.
Presumably I appeared non-threatening, as she nodded curtly and normal business resumed. Thick, licorice-infused pipe smoke clung to my frock coat as I made my way to the bar and slapped a shilling upon it. My extravagance was duly noted and I was soon sipping sloe gin with a young fellow whose dented ear trumpet and hand-me-down leg brace suggested an easily bought tongue.
Two hours later, full of gin and information, I sent a report to Krellen using one of a dozen heliscrolls he had furnished me with. The contents of the report were sketchy, but to be expected. The afflicted young man, Billy Rusden, had confirmed my suspicions; the owners of the spa were not locals, and were in fact Americans, reclusive and rich. He recounted tales of disappearing visitors and pulsating lights emanating from the bath house, but this was the usual fluff I expected to hear, and so I decided to stifle my own speculation until I had personally visited Penfold Spa.
*
The next morning my fairly linear walk towards the spa took me past rose-coated cottages and brick-faced storehouses and the Haverford natives nodded and smiled as I greeted them on my brief journey. It was all so frustratingly uneventful.
Then I chanced upon an underdeveloped expanse that might once have been a shallow quarry, but now harbored a handful of rusting hulks; their spindly legs frozen as they clawed at the sky, crowns of cannons half buried in the mud. Crab tanks. One of the machines groaned, and a side hatch popped open on the nearest behemoth to reveal the lunatic grin of Billy Rusden.
“How d’ya like these, Mr. Rend?”
“Most impressive, William,” I retorted, “spoils of the Stack Wars I assume.”
“Yessir. One of them frog holes opened up not far from here and a dozen of these buggers came crawling out, right into the arms of our gunner boys. Wish I’d been able to join in,” he said as he thumped his fist against his leg brace. “The crabs caught nothing but lead that day.” He smiled, poking his forefinger through one of the numerous bullet holes that riddled the soft iron carapace.
Although I had an appointment to keep, my interest was piqued, and I paused to take in the smells and textures of the war machine graveyard. Crab tanks had played an ineffective role in the failed French takeover of Britain’s coal refineries, their spindly legs being easy to trip up as they emerged from any one of the seventeen tunnels burrowed by the French during t
heir ridiculous invasion attempt. These machines were useful in cities, where their two-man operators could run them up the side of buildings using the hydraulic harpoons in their feet, spitting fire from the sextet of muzzles on their domes, but on less predictable terrain they were ungainly, and easily outsmarted.
“This one’s still got some fire in her loins,” grinned Billy, reaching in and yanking on an unseen lever which caused a great shudder to rattle the squat tank’s rivets. “That’s why I’m living in her. Warmest place in town.”
I laughed as I left him in his iron abode and made a mental note to report these items to Krellen in my next heliscroll.
*
Twenty minutes later I reached Penfold Spa, a three-storey monument to pampered living and post-war profit. I walked through the main gate and circled its immaculate grounds. The main building was fairly unremarkable in design, all grey bricks and shuttered windows, but an extension that looked like a fairly recent addition could not be more displaced in its rural setting. This satellite building was remarkable for its lack of edges. Intricate stonework created a cylindrical form which sat beneath a rudimentary roof of disconcertingly organic design. There were no obvious windows at head height, but closer to the bulbous apex was a circular configuration of round portholes. I wandered over to the door and reached for the looping handle.
“Can I help you?” The voice was thin, laced with the mongrel accent of a New Englander and I turned to face a woman so immaculately groomed she actually elicited a double-take from me. I smiled and withdrew my hand from the door, offering it to her.
“How do you do. I have a reservation.”
Not a trace of emotion cracked her flawless visage, “Mr. Templeton Rend?”
“At your service, madam.”
“You appear to be a little lost, allow me to escort you to reception.”
The living doll had already spun on her heel before I could respond and I had walk briskly to keep up with her as she led me back to the main house.
*
A plethora of small feminine statues, hewn from a variety of wood and stone, jostled for prominence all over the reception room and I recognized several of them from past investigations involving cultist depravities and phantasmagorical murders. Indeed, as the woman retrieved my reservation papers, I casually perused the closest figurine and immediately spied the writhing coils of tiny octopus legs where her pubic thatch should have resided. A harlot of the Deep Sea Gods, and no mistake.
“Mr. Rend.”
I returned the foul statuette to its resting place and turned to face the woman behind the desk.
She extended her hand and finally attempted a smile. “Welcome to Penfold Spa. I am Elizabeth Penfold, and your heliscroll suggested you are in need of restoration.”
“Like an old sofa, yes.”
The smile immediately vanished and she pushed a wad of pamphlets across the desk. “I recommend a thorough scrubbing, inside and out and perhaps a prolonged session under the sun lamps. See if we can’t get some color back into that complexion.”
I rather prized my alabaster skin, but continued the charade. “That all sounds splendid, Mrs. Penfold, but I was rather hoping I might partake of the marvelous Haverford waters that I’ve heard so much about.”
Her razor thin lips drooped like white asparagus and she turned away from me to adjust the statuette I had just manhandled. “The bathhouse is for members only, Mr. Rend.”
“So how does one become a member?”
“One doesn’t, Mr. Rend,” she said as she tugged harshly on a green braid behind her desk and a distant bell rang. “Not until I or Mr. Penfold approves of such a distinction.”
A side door opened and a girl of no more than twelve years in a plain white dress entered the hall. Her azure eyes peeked out from beneath curtains of blonde hair and took stock of me in an instant, then returned her gaze to the marble floor. The American handed her my reservation folder.
“Elin, give Mr. Rend the basic tour, and then book him in for his welcome colonic.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl’s voice was soft and carried a Welsh lilt. “This way please.”
*
As I trotted in unison with Elin’s brisk pace along a deep-carpeted corridor I couldn’t help but notice the girth of her hips beneath the brilliant cotton of her dress which danced like a mermaid’s tail. Though I certainly have no penchant for underage conquests, something about her gait intrigued me.
“No school today, Elin?” I probed.
“I finished school eleven years ago, sir,” she replied as we neared the end of the passage. “Here we are. We must be brief, for the master will not appreciate being disturbed.”
She opened the door and we walked into a stench that immediately made me gag. As I wiped at the tears welling up in my crumpled eyes I began to make out images and colors which slowly coalesced to form identifiable shapes. A quartet of giant gas lamps stood on guard, one in each corner, vast mirrored helmets directing their jaundiced glow into the center of the room.
The whole area lacked conventional furniture save for an imposing shelving unit bolted against the far wall that was laden with large, pottery urns, and a collection of wooden tables, nine in all, each one supporting a prone figure. These motionless persons were all smothered in a glistening gray muck which was piled upon their flesh like overworked meringue; such was its insidious viscosity. The obnoxious fumes were clearly seeping from this substance, and I detected sulphur, rotting fish matter and offal within its ghoulish bouquet.
A corpulent female reclined nude on the center table like a beached beluga. She mumbled several despicable phrases in ancient Bedouin which I recognized as promissory offerings of body and spirit to foul well demons, inviting their pustule-coated coils into every orifice on her body, and several more she would make later.
“The mud room,” stated Elin with astounding obviousness, “and allow me to introduce Mr. August Penfold.” A shadowy figure emerged from the gloom on my right and brushed against my arm.
“Good morning,” whispered the figure and I took a step back to better acknowledge my greeter.
“How do you do Mr. …Penfold?” the words barely made it out of my mouth.
August Penfold was the closest I had ever seen to a living anatomical model. His rake thin torso was smothered by a loose cotton smock, smeared with mud and tied elaborately at the hip. A large folded hood hung on his neck and shoulders and hid the tips of the man’s lank, pus-colored hair that was slicked back from his skull. There was not an ounce of discernible flesh or muscle under his skin, tinged green by the lamp light, nor were there any visible wrinkles or lines on his face. It looked for all the world as if he had a giant bulldog clip on the back of his head, pulling the skin taut, slitting his eyes, widening his nostrils and creating a permanent death grin. I shook the hand he offered and it felt like shaking the hand of a Korean paper doll.
“Welcome to my humble oasis,” he rasped through ratty teeth, “I do hope you will enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you, I’m sure I will,” I replied, wandering over to the closest table, “this would be the famous miracle mud I have heard so much about?”
“Naturally.” Murmured the skeleton, running his wiry hands over the nearest guest, smoothing the muck with the delicacy of a pastry chef.
“Most impressive, Mr. Penfold, I look forward to trying the miracle for myself.”
He looked me in the eye. “You would benefit greatly from a session, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He threw Elin a glance which was her cue to remove me, but I needed no such pointer, and retreated to the door with a tiny bow, happy to be out of that foul chamber.
*
I followed Elin across the hall and into a second room as vast as the previous one, but decidedly less offensive to my senses. Plumb in the center stood a giant man whom I guessed to be Scandinavian, judging by his blond mane and Viking brow. He wore white slacks and an undershirt and his bulging arms were inser
ted into segmented iron gauntlets that rose to mid-forearm. Extending from these metal gloves was a complex webbing of wires and hydraulic tubes which grew in complexity and girth toward his left and right until they ended at four large metal devices, a pair coupled to each glove. These devices were affixed to wheeled arches that had been positioned over the same number of cotton-swathed massage tables, and upon each table lay more guests, three women and one man, all face down and nude save for a modest slip of blue toweling across their buttocks.
As the masseur in the middle moved his arms, gesticulating with his iron-clad fingers, a series of corresponding metal arms, segmented by large brass gimbals and each one sporting a stuffed leather pommel, flexed and rotated as they applied pressured strokes upon the sprawled people. Judging by the low moans of contentment issuing from the tables, the Viking was good at his job, expertly puppeteering the machines in a grand display of simultaneous manipulation. Steam pipes as wide as my thigh coursed away from each massage machine and disappeared into the floor, no doubt linked to a lower level furnace.
“Hello, Bergren,” said Elin cheerily, waving her hand, “don’t mind us.”
The huge man grinned and said something that contained far too many vowels, all the while continuing his expert application. His response confirmed my initial suspicions, and I pegged him for a Swede.
“Wonderful contraptions,” I said, truly impressed at the engineering on show.
“Mr. Penfold’s design,” replied Elin, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the Swedish hulk. “The master has many talents.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, “many talents.”
“Templeton?”
The voice had come from a table at my extreme left, and it was a voice I recognized. I took a step toward the table and crouched slightly to better see the woman partially obscured by the mechanical structure that encompassed her. She was slim, but not scrawny, solidly built with admirable muscle tone in her arms which were raised to cradle her head, thus exposing a delicious side portion of plump bosom. She was utterly desirable, but she was out of bounds and also far from where she should be.
